


First Impressions

by Dreaming_Spire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:34:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_Spire/pseuds/Dreaming_Spire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One afternoon in the National Gallery makes John reconsider what he thinks he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Impressions

John knows the text is from Mycroft from the way Sherlock’s shoulders twitch.  If he were using a laptop, the agitated clacks of the keys would have given Sherlock away. Even before Sherlock rumbles “No, no, no!” John can tell that Mycroft is winning the argument.

“We’re going out,” Sherlock announces, and John already has his coat.

Sherlock hails the cab, leans forward and tells the driver, “National Portrait Gallery.”   Once they settle into the backseat, Sherlock glares at the streets.

“So, it’s art appreciation time?” John asks, “Or something more?”

“It’s an annoyance.” Sherlock snaps.

“Ah, well, that explains everything,” John says, even though sarcasm fails to register with his flatmate. He doesn’t bother to try to talk Sherlock out of his sulk; it’ll end when it ends, in John’s experience.

Sherlock bounds up the stairs in a swirl or dark coat and darker mood, but pauses at the doors to wait for John , who doesn't stop to wonder why Sherlock steps aside to let him enter first. The foyer is uncrowded - the guards are bored, the visitors unhurried, for the most part.

John looks around, wondering if they're there to examine the tourists or to find an exhibit, but Sherlock is just frowning down at his mobile, seemingly oblivious to everything else. Between the moment when John opens his mouth to ask why and the second the words leave his lips, Sherlock's glance snaps up, over the crowd, and back to John, interrupting with, "Early. Do you want a coffee?"

Even though John's used to this behavior, the pedestrian nature of the question catches him off guard. He blinks for a moment before replying, "Sure, coffee. Why not?" and finds he's speaking to Sherlock's back again. He hurries to catch up.

Sherlock's already ordered by the time John joins him in the queue. The cashier slides two Americanos and a chocolate slice across the counter. "We wouldn't have time for a baguette," Sherlock says. "If you require lunch, we'll have time on the way home."

"Right." John's also used to Sherlock's habit of filling in parts of the conversation without him. He's still undecided whether it's more or less irritating when Sherlock's correct about what he would have said.

He does wonder whether Sherlock purchased the cake to avoid conversation. It's not bad, though, so maybe it doesn't matter. Sherlock's not drumming his fingers on the table or twitching too much, so John's free to enjoy it, although that's probably why he misses whatever it was that signals Sherlock to say "It's time."

“Time?” John asks, but Sherlock’s already out of the café, so John finishes his own coffee in a gulp and hurries afterwards. By the time he catches up, Sherlock’s taken the stairs two at a time up to the second floor, and through several rooms, not sparing a glance at centuries’ worth of paintings.  For a moment, John wonders why Sherlock’s stopped at one particular canvas – a quick glance at the plaque says it’s a Gainsborough - before he sees that Sherlock’s ignoring that, too, in favor of his mobile again. With a few more angry swipes, Sherlock mutters, “Turner. Obvious. Boring.”

Before John can ask, Sherlock changes completely. He looks pleased to be there, glancing around with enthusiasm. As he jams the brochure back into his coat pocket, Sherlock smiles at John and places a hand on his back. “Well, this is the place to start,” he says, guiding John into the next room. “We can go to the French work next – I think the Academy room is the one we really need to see – but I can explain the progression from here.”

John wants to ask, but there’s a slight break in Sherlock’s performance, a warning look in his eyes that contrasts with the eager smile, that says this isn’t the time. “All right, but you know I’m hopeless at this. Just tell me and I’ll try to follow along.”

Sherlock understands the message, underscoring it with an encouraging pat. “Not to worry. Remember, the main thing is to enjoy yourself. It’s not a test.” John wants to snort. The hell it isn’t a test. It’s always a test, and only Sherlock’s sure of the answers. “Now, forget the Gainsboroughs – everyone looks at those, only natural, we’re drawn to figures, especially if we’re unsure of what else to look at – and that Stubbs is distracting. It’s always annoyed me, that bloody horse smack in the middle of the rest of this just to parallel the one in the next room. Here’s what you want to see.” He positions them in front of another canvas, hand still on John’s back.

“Right, yes.” He stares at it. It’s a mass of murky woods, with a stag going up to a monument. “What am I looking at?”

“The _Cenotaph to the Memory of Sir Joshua Reynolds_ ,” Sherlock’s smiling at him as though that weren’t the sort of question he normally greeted with a scowl.

“Yes, I can read that, but –”

“But what we’re looking at is the scope here. Look how the colors in all of the Constables flow together – a departure from the Gainsborough and Hogarth business – and how, despite the insistence on human figures or implied presence, even through a monument, he’s beginning to move away from such things.”

“I see,” John says, cautiously, meaning that he certainly doesn’t.

“You will, in a moment. Now, those show some influences from the French; you’ll see the Academy takes it further, especially Cornet. When we look at those, think about those Muchas you like, unless you’re only interested in the women.” Sherlock’s smile is still there, although John’s wondering if he’s about to crack under the strain. He looks over the gallery, searching for something, then grabs John’s hand to pull him over to another painting. “That leads us to Turner.”

“Does it?” John asks, rather dizzily, as he lets himself be dragged across the gallery. There aren’t many other visitors today; Sherlock’s got the run of the room. There are other couples here and there, having muted conversations, but this impromptu art lesson doesn’t threaten to disturb anyone but one tired-looking man who seems to be staring at the wall as much as one of the Turners.

Sherlock, impervious to the social niceties at best, gestures at another painting. “ _The Evening Star_ ,” he says, as proudly as though he’d painted it himself. “Turner’s turning point.”

“Was that – did you just make a joke?”

“Did I? Accidentally, I promise you.” Sherlock’s still holding John’s hand, and when he laughs at John’s comment, he gives it a slight squeeze. “No, you see, Turner’s stepped away from the busy world he does in _Calais_ ,” here, Sherlock waves off to the right, “and that he keeps a hint of in _Temeraire_ and _Ulysses_ ,” a gesture to the works on the left.  “This is where he makes a commitment to change.”

“He does?” It’s a good thing that Sherlock seems to want John to act clueless about the matter, because that is precisely the case. Sherlock’s looking at John without impatience, waiting like, well, like a normal person would for someone to follow along, not like Sherlock, whose philosophy is normally “keep up or fall behind where you belong.”

“Yes,” Sherlock sounds pleased with John’s fumbling. “Look at these – The _Star_ , _Railway_ , and _Margate_. They’re positioned here for a reason. They look a bit alike, don’t they?”  Sherlock looks eagerly from John to the paintings and back again.

“Yes, they do. I can see that, yes.” John feels a bit more confident. Sherlock’s really meant for him to look at these? Well, fair enough. “They’re all from the about same time, so that makes sense. Why’s the most recent in the middle?”

Sherlock practically claps his hands together. “An excellent question. Look at the train, John.”

“The train?” John feels ridiculous, but there’s nobody close enough to hear the question except the tired-looking fellow. Another visitor passes by, an art student of sort to judge from the anorak, but luckily, he doesn’t seem to overhear.  John’s still embarrassed. “That’s a train, is it?”

“It’s meant to suggest one. And that’s what’s marvelous about these.” Sherlock’s gesture groups all of the paintings on the wall together. “Turner wanted to talk about transition – not talk, exactly, but show it without commenting explicitly. All of these paintings have at least one moment of transition, whether from day to evening, from use to disuse with the warship,” Sherlock points at the furthest work, “from planned to deviation in Ulysses, and here, from pre- to industrial.”

John looks back over the row. He considers moving, but it’d block the tired man’s view, although now the art student has appropriated half of his bench and is engaging him in conversation. The tired man looks as annoyed as John feels, but Sherlock is watching, and even though John suspects this enthusiasm is all a façade, he can’t help being placated by the show of interest in his opinion. He nods. “That makes sense.”

“It does, but think, John. Imagine the permutations of that word, “transition.” He’s playing with the idea in so many ways. You don’t really think that looks exactly like a train, do you?”

John shakes his head. “No. It’s more like the suggestion of a train, or the idea of one.”

“The idea of one yes, or would you say it’s just giving you the impression of one?” Sherlock’s looking at him again, waiting. It feels like Sherlock’s holding out a hand, wanting John to grasp on and leap.

Something clicks. “The – ah, do you mean this is leading into Impressionism?”

Sherlock’s grin broadens, and it’s a clearer burst of light than any these painters attempted. “That’s exactly what I mean. But what’s wonderful is that we can look back and see how people moved towards it, see a concept’s evolution in action. And Turner in particular, who starts out from the same plodding point as the rest of his kind, but manages to try to show us how a thought plays in the mind, moving forward, yes, but not necessarily in the ways we expect on the surface.”

John’s barely aware of this. He’s pleased he’s made the connection, yes, like a child who hazards a guess and gets praise from a teacher, but Sherlock’s hand is still in his, and Sherlock’s lit up with delight thanks to John, and John feels a bit weak, because a thought is definitely moving in his mind in a way he’s wasn’t expected. Sherlock looks like he loves John, and John’s not sure what he feels, but he knows he likes it, even if his legs are threatening to go a bit wobbly.

He wants to sit down, but the student and the tired man are still arguing, although it’s turned friendly, from the looks of things. Good. It’s all good. Even the tired man should be happy, and as if he agrees, the tired man smiles at the student, who’s grinning, nearly as pleased as Sherlock. Sherlock notices John’s daze, and moves his other hand on John’s back again. “Are you all right, John?”

“Yes, of course, yeah.” What do you say at moments like these? “Where do we go from here?”

“That depends. I think we should look at the Corots, but we could save those. Let’s just pop back into the French room, and go home.”

“The French room?” Now John’s completely confused again.

“Yes, the one with the Vernets. It’s a force of habit.” Sherlock twines his fingers with John’s and leads him into an adjacent gallery. John allows Sherlock to park him in front of another canvas, but instead of explaining, Sherlock pulls out his mobile and starts texting, his usual bored sulk back in force.

John waits a full three minutes before asking. “What am I looking at?”

Sherlock doesn’t look up. “Rubbish.”

“Pardon?” Even if Sherlock’s talking to his brother, the abrupt change is startling.

“The Vernets. We’re related, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find them trite, derivative and boring. It must be what Mycroft finds pleasing about them.” Sherlock drops the mobile back into his pocket. “If there’s anything you’d like to see in this museum, we can pass it by on the way out, but let’s not take too long. If I’m not doing anything interesting, I can at least make some notations on my fungus samples.”

“Fungus?” John doesn’t wait for an answer. “Of course. Fungus.” He follows Sherlock out of the museum and into another taxi.  Sherlock traces the streets with his glare again, as though nothing at all has changed.


End file.
